


How to Be Thankful

by MeltyRum



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:01:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23432809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeltyRum/pseuds/MeltyRum
Summary: Thanksgiving fic.
Relationships: Jade Nguyen/Joseph Wilson
Kudos: 1
Collections: Boku no Hero Academia x Persona





	How to Be Thankful

It had been a while since she had ever meaningfully reconvened with any member of her family, so this particular day had no real significance to Cheshire; this meant she could offer her services on a day where even villainy might like to take the next few evenings off, enjoying their potatoes and turkeys and pumpkin pies (or near enough analogues) in the comforts of their homes—or among their underworld brethren, for the less fortunate or important of them.

Well… not that it was _always_ like that, and certainly not for everyone; she wouldn’t want to paint _too_ idyllic a picture of Gotham’s malefactors. Crime didn’t take holidays, after all, and that went for her and plenty of others.

That didn’t mean she couldn’t take it easy, though: today’s job had been easier than usual, and she had plenty of free time after she had gone and sabotaged that poor government contractor’s lab samples (when she noticed the A.R.G.U.S. logo on the humming equipment, she made sure to make a swift exit). She didn’t really know whose work she was ruining or what the significance of it would have been, but she _did_ know that the commissioner for the job spent their days teaching at Gotham University. Cheshire had always heard tales regarding the ruthless nature of academia, but had never really known it until now.

She was relieved to have gone into something (figuratively) less cutthroat, like professional crime.

The job wasn’t  _quite_ done, however; there was still a satchel of stolen vials to deliver (blood, she was certain), so she stayed low and moved briskly, taking the alleyways and streets that she knew would keep her safe. This was easy to do, the path familiar enough that the trip would even take her past their old apartment—a reminder of the family that she would not be seeing this Thanksgiving, for better or worse.

Was Artemis still living there? she wondered. If she climbed the fire escape and peeked into the window, would mom and Artemis be enjoying the traditional Than ksgiving  _ bún thang _ and green bean casserole, perhaps followed by  bánh dẻo or other mid-autumn icons (although Thanksgiving was indeed decidedly not _mid_ -autumn)? Or would they have simply ordered in some Chinese, instead? Some years had more to be thankful for than others.

Would  _daddy_ have stopped by? She nearly shuddered at the thought, but maybe that was from the evening’s chill. Needless to say, she wouldn’t be swinging by to find out, even if she couldn’t keep the desire to know from tickling and itching at the base of her skull. If all had gone well—if Artemis had taken her advice—then there might be no one there at all. If dear little sister had packed up and found something else for herself—outside the reach of their parents—then there would be no reason to visit in the first place.

She allowed herself a wry smile behind the mask, as something in her gut told her that this would not be the case; Artemis was, unfortunately, a good little girl. She’d probably be kept tightly under mom’s thumb, trapped in that apartment until the day one of them died.

At any rate, it was just as well that she would not be visiting family, as she did have  _one_ stop to hit before she got rid of her package. It would be in his normal patrol spot, and the time they had agreed upon was drawing near. 

And as it turned out, that appointed time got nearer and nearer… until it had approached, then gone fully on its way, leaving the assassin waiting—alone—in the middle of a dirty, snowy alleyway while the blood in her pack started to warm… albeit not by much, considering the weather.

An irritated sigh escaped her nostrils. Cheshire got some hollow satisfaction at realizing she was only a  _little_ surprised that he didn’t show, considering Joseph certainly had a personality consistent with being a great big flake. She couldn’t wait to find out just  _what_ had been worth standing her up for, wondering if this would be her first glance at the “ruthlessness” Slade had mentioned.

No matter. She had places to be, and maybe the simmering annoyance would boost her speed.

Cheshire didn’t get far, however, unable even to begin plotting her revenge in earnest before taking note of a shock of brilliant white that didn’t quite match the dirty snow around it, a crumpled form topped with a little blonde coif which indicated that she had, perhaps,  _not_ been abandoned to the November evening.

Forgetting herself slightly, she allowed her steps to crush snow into the ground as she approached his body, steeling herself for the disappointment that would no doubt surge once she had inspected him—because surely nothing that could get through his suit would leave him hale and healthy afterward—particularly not slumped against the brick of the adjacent building the way he was. She knelt by him, trying to tell herself that disappointment is  _all_ she would feel, with just one more hero gone from the world, lost in the line of duty.

But to her surprise, she felt a pulse from his wrist; she wasn’t sure if she was more taken aback by the pulse itself, or the fact she could sense it through whatever high-tech materials lined his high-tech spandex. Alive, though, and merely unconscious… or unable to wake. Things were starting to look  _familiar_ .

“And here I wanted to ask you a question or two about that other little lady you’ve been wandering around with,” she muttered, resignedly pulling off her mask and hooking it into her belt. All the better to see by—and fair, considering what she was about to do to Joseph.

With little hesitation, she lifted a hand to his mask and slipped it down to reveal his clean-cut, playboy face. Cheshire couldn’t help giving a thin little smile at the sight of it, although it quickly transformed into something more grim, careful, and considered as she moved her fingers to his mouth, parting his lips and gratefully noting neither the feel—nor the sight nor smell—of vomit, although his breathing remained strained and irregular, and the hint of blue at his lips could have come from his condition  _or_ from the cold.

“Unfortunately for you, dear Joseph, I’ve learned enough about poisons to know that this won’t be fixed with chest compressions and some mouth-to-mouth.” But it wasn’t as though she carried an array of antidotes everywhere she went;  _curing_ toxins wasn’t exactly her game. So while it was fortunate that she had found him, she realized she was at a bit of a loss as to how she might assist. Perhaps it would have been better if Cheshire had never seen him, since leaving him wasn’t exactly an option—not without alerting the authorities, but that would be unfortunate for other reasons, she knew, looking again to the mask crumpled under his chin.

Just her luck. Cheshire couldn’t decide whether it was good or bad. It went without saying that Gotham was a  _big_ city; if her route had been just a little different—if her path to the drop site had just been slightly  _off—_ she would have missed him entirely. And he might be the worse for it, certainly, but her conscience? Well…

She sighed. Such that it was, that conscience  _itched_ . She ran a hand through his hair, partly out of some piteous affection and partly to see if she could spot a puncture wound, considering his scalp was the only place such a thing could be done.

Her hand shot back quickly when she heard the crunch of snow and realized she was no longer alone, quickly donning her mask as she turned to spot the intruder.

“Back away,” came his voice, somehow even more threatening than she would have expected. “Let me see your hands.” The interloper looked ready to pounce at any moment, sticks at the ready.

Cheshire did just as he commanded, letting him see her empty palms as she rose back to her feet, backing a few steps toward the wall opposite Joseph’s catatonic body. “Nightwing,” she greeted neutrally, wondering if she had accidentally siphoned off some of Joey’s bad fortune or something. “Listen, I—”

“I know. You didn’t do it,” he interrupted, voice soaking in irony as he threateningly jerked the tip of an escrima stick at her, silently commanding her back just a bit farther down the alleyway as he stepped closer to the collapsed vigilante.

“He’s poisoned, Nightwing,” she insisted.

“I can see that, Cheshire.” Nightwing sheathed his weapons and knelt, gaze rapidly shifting between her and Joseph. “You can stop. Get on your knees and keep your palms to the ground. Anyway, I know poison is your MO.”

“It is, but this wasn’t me. Not  _this_ time.” Cheshire quietly complied; following the hero’s orders was all good and well as long as he didn’t try to apprehend her. Besides,  _he_ might actually be able to  _help_ . She could bear with leaving her hands in the snow if Grayson could figure out what to do. “Not to brag, but if this was my work, he’d be dead. But he’s still breathing, as you can see. No vomit, either—mouth is suspiciously dry, in fact,” added Cheshire, hoping this would nudge him in the right direction.

Nightwing let out a derisive chortle, but his hands quickly moved to confirm her testimony and performed a few other cursory examinations; he was, of course, still careful to keep an eye on her as he worked. The tension had grown oppressive enough that she was quite pleasantly surprised to see him visibly relax a little once he found Joseph’s pulse.

“You’re right,” he said eventually. “No vomit. Are you trying to tell me you unmasked him just to check his mouth?  _Please_ .”

She saw his hand reach for a communicator, no doubt summoning the authorities—but was that for him? Or for her? “Oh calm  _down_ , Nightwing. I’ve already seen him with the mask off. We’re  _friends_ . I know his father, too.”

“You know  _Slade_ ?” he grumbled, but apparently the topic didn’t suit his taste: “Fortunately for both of us… you’re right; I can tell this isn’t your work. Next I bet you’ll try to tell me that murder isn’t your style.”

“Oh, no,” she corrected, a slight purr in her voice. “It is. But I like to be compensated for it.” She glanced thoughtfully over to the examination in progress, rubbing her hands into the pavement in hopes that the friction would warm them up a little. “What gave it away, exactly? That it wasn’t my work.”

“Guess you don’t know Jericho like I do. This was his own doing,” he replied, a slight pang of disappointment in his voice. He produced a syringe from his belt, giving the instructions on the tube a very brief once-over before he slipped some fingers into the throat of Joseph’s suit, pulling it to one side until just enough shoulder had been exposed. Nightwing showed no hesitation in plunging down the syringe. “This is an oxycodone overdose. The needle will counteract it, but we need to get him somewhere warm.”

“If you call the police, he’ll be found out.”

“I know. I’ll think of something else.”

“Feel like leaving him with me?” she asked, proud of the way she could convey her smirk through her voice. “Although I probably wouldn’t be able to carry him very far.”

Nightwing glared, apparently not enjoying the joke as much as she did. She was surprised, though, to see him reach for his belt again, this time presenting a tightly-folded emergency blanket, which he draped around Joseph’s catatonic body, wrapping it snug and moving him into a sitting position. “You’re not leaving with Jericho. And I can’t let you  walk, Cheshire.”

“Oh, but you must. Catching me won’t be easy, and you’ve still got to tend to your— _our—_ friend, don’t you?” She smiled, even if he wouldn’t be able to see it. This was a good opportunity, she decided, and she lifted her palms from the ground, doubting Nightwing would try to stop her and confident she could make her escape even if he  _did_ .

“Don’t move,” he commanded, while also making no move to stop her. All bark. “Even if you didn’t hurt Jericho, there must be some reason you’re out here in that mask. I can’t let you go.”

“But you’re going to… like I said.” She could sense the defeat in him, too; he wouldn’t risk leaving Joseph’s side to keep her here. Cheshire got to her feet, dusting the ice from her palms. “Anyway, you don’t exactly have any proof I’m up to no good, do you? Can’t a girl wear a mask where she likes? You are right about one thing, though: there’s a reason I’m out here, and I’m afraid this cat’s on a schedule.”

Nightwing seemed to realize his defeat here, even if he wasn’t one to admit it aloud. “Why do you take this kind of work anyway, Cheshire?” he asked, apparently deciding a change in subject was his best bet.

The question  _did_ surprise her, though, and she blinked a few times as she tried to discern his meaning. “Why? Thinking about trying to reform me? The jobs I perform are the ones that come to me, Nightwing; that’s all.”

“And how is that? Criminal tenure?” he guessed, words leaking sarcasm.

“Still too young for that, unfortunately. But my resume  _does_ sport some… impressive education. Nothing for you to concern yourself about. Anyway, it pays the bills and I’m good at it. Everyone should be so lucky to say that, shouldn’t they?” She smiled, checking the temperature of the satchel with her hand and deciding this was as good a time as any to make her exit. 

“It was nice meeting you, Nightwing,” she added. “Take care of Joseph for me, won’t you?” she cooed, engaging her quirk and blending into the surrounding brick and snow as she slipped into the shadows of the alleyway, leaving the pair behind.


End file.
